


Better Than Imagined

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: BAMF Jensen, First Meetings, Language, M/M, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: “Who the fuck are you?”Jensen takes a sip from his wine, slowly, just to look even more like an annoying shit. He tilts the glass to his lips silently and then depositing in on the countertop with a clink, smacking his lips.“I’m the guy who is going to break your nose in about five seconds if you don’t back the fuck off.”





	Better Than Imagined

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [spnspringfling](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/) as a gift for enablelove. Prompt: "You owe me a drink." - "Why?" - "Because when I looked at you, I dropped mine."
> 
> Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine.

Jensen can feel a headache creeping up right behind his right eye. It’s already spreading to his temple and he surreptitiously rubs it with his knuckles, directing a forced smile at the opposite end of the table.

He’s had a little too much red wine and red wine already gives him a headache.

It’s not just the wine, though. The guy sitting at the other side of the table is attractive enough but duller than a butter knife. He was drop-dead gorgeous an hour and a half ago but now he’s just kind of … common. It’s interesting how fast someone loses their appeal if they can barely hold a conversation.

It’s not the guy’s fault, Matt’s fault, not really. Jensen can’t blame him for having boring interests. Would ‘boring interests’ be an oxymoron in this case?

Apparently, he is so bland that he’s got Jensen thinking about seventh-grade English instead of listening to what he is saying.

“Jensen?”

Jensen stops digging his fingers into his temple and looks up from where he has been subconsciously staring at Matt’s tie. “Yeah. Fishing.”

He has to admit that he’s been zoning in and out of the conversation – mostly out – but he remembers Matt saying something about a ‘rod’ and the guy has too much of a stick up his ass to be talking about the other kind openly in public, so Jensen figures fishing is a safe bet.

Matt tilts his head, his wine glass half-way to his lips. There is a funny sort of look on his face that Jensen can’t place but his head is hurting too much for him to make an effort right now.

He can’t even blame anyone other than himself – not like that blind date two weeks ago that his no-good best friend set him up with. Memo to himself: Never let Danneel be in charge of picking his dates _ever again_. It’s not that she’s got different taste in men than he does, it’s just that her standards are substantially lower. The guy she sent Jensen on that horrific date with all but undressed him with his eyes as soon as he walked through the door.

Jensen might be desperate but he’s not _that_ desperate. Besides, he knows that if he tried, he could probably find someone to have casual sex with most days without putting too much work in. He knows how to use his face. But more often than not, he’s not that interested in hook-ups. Maybe that time has passed for him. Maybe he is getting old, like Danneel always jokingly nags him about.

There’s a happy thought.

He is just about to put down his wine glass and tell Matt that he’s terribly sorry but this isn’t going to work out - there’d be a couple of _ah shucks_ ’s and _nice to meet you anyway_ ’s even though Jensen would mostly be lying through his teeth – when there’s a loud clang followed by a splash of liquid coming from the bar. Jensen’s head turns automatically because there’s nothing more interesting holding his attention.

He can hear the man who just spilled his beer all over the countertop apologizing profusely to the bartender, and Jensen is about to write it off as some drunkard not being able to keep his limbs in order. Then the mountain of a man standing right next to Drunk Guy starts shoving him and hissing something in his ear that Jensen can’t catch from where he’s seated but it sure as hell doesn’t look friendly.

His eyebrows draw together. A few other people have stopped what they’re doing to look and there is a weird static in the air, every spectator waiting eagerly to find out what will happen next.

‘Vultures,’ Jensen thinks even as he can’t avert own his eyes. Because Drunk Guy doesn’t seem all that drunk after all but he isn’t saying or doing anything, only helps the bartender wipe the spilled beer off the counter and carefully picks up the broken pieces glass from the beer bottle.

The bigger guy grabs for his wrist, lightning-quick, and sadistically grinds the guy’s hand into the sharp glass. There’s the crinkle of shards and the pained hiss from the man whose wrist is still trapped in the beefy guy’s grip, and that’s when people start moving.

Jensen happens to be the fastest. He isn’t sure how but one moment he is sitting at the table with Fishing Rod Matt and the next, he’s at the bar, half-way between Not-So-Drunk Guy and Asshole. Admittedly, not a very original nickname but it’s going to have to do.

Jensen isn’t exactly short but the guy has more than just a couple inches on him. But Jensen is in a bad mood. That trumps … pretty much everything. Danneel frequently says— _complains_ so.

“Keep walking, pretty boy,” the man very eloquently says to him in a low baritone. 

Jensen’s lip curls. “Can’t do that.”

“Guys,” the bartender pleads with the three of them but it sounds half-hearted. He has probably seen his fair share of shit.

Jensen feels a little sorry for him but when he turns to his left, to the man who still hasn’t moved other than twisting his injured hand out of Asshole’s grip and pressing a napkin to this bleeding palm, the anger that propelled him out of his seat a few minutes ago slams back full-force.

He can see the man’s face now. He couldn’t before, only got the impression of shaggy hair, a muscled back, and broad shoulders. He is a lot younger than Jensen expected, or maybe he just looks it, his sunken frame perched on the too-narrow barstool, cradling his right hand against his chest.

“Hi,” Jensen says to him, visibly startling him, “What’s your name?”

“Jared.” It’s barely more than a breath but he has got a nice voice. Soft, honey-rough, with the hint of a drawl.

Jensen jabs a thumb at Asshole standing behind him, looming huge, fuming at being mostly ignored. Some guys don’t do too well with that. Jensen would know. 

“Jared, tell me, do you know this guy?” he asks and Jared swallows, doesn’t speak.

Jensen takes that as a ‘yes’. “Do you like him?”

Jared makes a face as if Jensen just told him he would only be allowed to eat broccoli for the rest of his life.

Turning around to face Asshole, Jensen carefully positions himself between the guy and Jared, shuffling closer to the bar. He can feel the point of Jared’s knee against the back of his thigh.

“He doesn’t like you,” he informs Asshole generously.

Asshole’s mouth twists and he snarls, “Who the fuck are you?”

Jensen takes a sip from his wine, slowly, just to look even more like an annoying shit. He tilts the glass to his lips silently and then depositing in on the countertop with a clink, smacking his lips.

“I’m the guy who is going to break your nose in about five seconds if you don’t back the fuck off.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind him and Asshole’s eyes widen hilariously. There’s a vein standing out from his forehead that Jensen should probably be worried about but he hasn’t felt this exhilarated all evening.

Plus, the goddamn headache is making him cranky, so he deserves a freaking pass.

Apparently, the second time he grabs for his wine glass is the last straw for Asshole and Jensen can see it coming from a mile away. He ducks away from the fist that comes flying at him but in the process, he drops his glass and it bursts apart on the tiled floor.

Oh well, he doesn’t like red wine that much anyway.

“You –” 

Asshole says something to him but he can’t hear it because some idiot from the back of the room yells “Fight!” as if this is a WWE event. Jensen rolls his eyes and avoids another fist coming at him before dashing forward and jabbing his elbow under Asshole’s ribs first and then under his jaw. He gets a pained grunt from the man for his effort and he can feel his mouth stretch into a grin. He is definitely enjoying this too much.

Then Asshole finds purchase and twists Jensen’s arm back, making him grit his teeth, but Jensen twists away before the guy can dislocate his shoulder. He kicks at the man’s legs and hooks his foot behind one knee to pull him down. When the large man staggers and crashes to the floor, Jensen’s fingers find and dig into the pressure points right next to his clavicle. The man elicits a yelp of pain, the look in his eyes murderous, but he stays down. For now.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen registers the bartender calmly placing a pistol on the countertop, safety on but point very much made.

God bless America.

He backs off, letting Asshole rise to his feet and stop dead when he sees the gun. He shakes himself, rotating his abused shoulder. Jensen fights the impulse to do the same because his left shoulder joint is smarting where Asshole nearly popped it out of its socket. 

For a moment, it feels like time stops altogether because no one moves. Then Asshole scoffs, spits on the ground right in front of Jensen’s feet and holds up a hand as if to say ‘Fine,’ and, to everyone’s surprise, he leaves.

“Alright, people, show’s over,” the bartenders says and replaces the pistol underneath the counter. Slowly, the crowd disperses. Jensen finally gets to rub his shoulder.

He turns around to Jared, grinning, “Thank you for that, that was fun,” even though Jared didn’t have anything to do with it except for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You know,” Jared says calmly, “I agree with him in one aspect.” He is still pressing that napkin against his palm although the paper’s mostly bled through. 

Jensen frowns. “With that asshole? Why?”

“I, too, would very much like to know who the fuck you are.” It doesn’t hold any of the derisiveness it did when Asshole asked the question only a moment ago. Instead, it sounds almost … awed.

Jensen smirks. “A helpful citizen.”

“I’m serious,” Jared laughs. He’s got a nice laugh.

“Jensen. I’m Jensen.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jared says, “I mean that. If you can fight like this even after a glass of wine, I definitely have to get to know you.”

Jensen turns his eyes down to his shoes, which feel slightly sticky now that he’s standing in a puddle of half-dried red wine. The glass was his second one but no one needs to know that. “Oh yeah?”

Jared is handsome, someone Jensen’s gaze would get caught on for a moment, maybe two moments, but it is obvious that he is quite a bit younger than Jensen’s usual demographic. Maybe it’s the hair. He’s got one of those faces that are not only attractive but also kind and awake. Jensen wasn’t able to tell before but Jared is tall, too. He is still sitting down but his long legs are splayed, stretched out under the bar.

So yeah, he is most definitely good-looking. It certainly helps that he is still staring at Jensen as if Jensen is his prince in shining armor, which, you know, Jensen likes to think he is. A little bit.

“Yeah,” Jared says, a mischievous sort of half-smile on his face and Jensen just knows this guy is going to be trouble.

After Fishing Rod Matt, Jensen thinks that maybe a little trouble isn’t so bad.

“Good,” he says and nods, pulling up the barstool next to Jared’s, “Because you owe me a drink.”

Jared’s eyebrows shoot up but he never loses that smile. “Why’s that?”

Jensen purses his lips and bats his eyelashes at Jared in an overly exaggerated way, voice fake-dreamy when he breathes, “Oh darling, because I dropped mine the moment I saw you.”

Jared bursts out laughing and it—wow, yeah, okay, it is a _really_ nice sound. Jensen probably couldn’t stop grinning if he tried.

“Right,” Jared nods, mouth quivering with amusement, “It didn’t have anything to do with picking a fight with a guy who’s half a foot taller than you.”

“‘Course not. Besides,” Jensen points a finger, “he’s the one who started it.”

“He most definitely did.” Jared’s mouth is still curved upward but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore and there’s a story to this that Jensen would really like to hear. He isn’t usually a nosy person, it’s just—he doesn’t really know actually. 

“So,” Jared drops his gaze to the countertop, drawing random patterns on it with his index finger, “More wine?”

“God, no.”

Jared looks up.

“I’ll have a beer.”

Jared’s smile returns.


End file.
